Bleeding Out
by xblurryfacex
Summary: John Watson spent too long in the army. What he didn't remember was that the boy he feel in love with there was the same man he now solved crimes with. And AU of Johnlock - hope you enjoy
1. The Day of the Draft

John Watson, from the age of twelve, knew he was going to be in the military.

Sherlock Holmes only had the idea six weeks ago.

With his stature, his background, the studies he had done, John looked like he fit the army mold perfectly. He was muscular and talented and brilliant, not to mention hilarious and friendly to the other men and women around him.

Sherlock looked a bit more out of place.

He was thin and lean, with a cold disposition and a sort of frightened look in his eyes. His hands gripped his luggage until his knuckles were white, his eyes constantly darting around the terminal.

The group of people standing around John all laughed at the words that came out of his mouth. He seemed completely comfortable in this position, his hands hung loosely on his backpack, his smile easy. His uniform fit him like a glove.

Sherlock opted to stand off to the side, quiet, not speaking a word. The only time he ever even acknowledged his comrades was when they had first entered the terminal.

* * *

 _Someone clapped a hand on his shoulder. "Hey, kid, don't look so nervous."_

 _Sherlock looked up to meet the eyes of a man shorter than he, but built much stronger. His eyes were a kind gray, his smile simple. Sherlock scowled._

 _"I'm not nervous."_

 _The man laughed, but as Sherlock scrutinized him, he found that he was a boy as well, no older than himself. He held out his hand._

 _"Name's John Watson. Gonna be a doctor." he grinned._

 _Sherlock took his hand unsurely. "Sherlock Holmes - " he held his tongue, deciding not to mention he was the one training under him._

 _Sherlock aspired to be a doctor, work with medicine. He never aspired to be in the army. However, because of his lack of medical education and late start to any education whatsoever, his father promptly signed him up to work under the vaunted John Watson. So now, looking at this boy, his gaze was cold, and he walked away without so much as a nod._

* * *

A mechanical voice piped over the speakers above them, telling the group it was time to load their baggage and be on their way. Sherlock gently loaded the polished case and worn-out bag into the cargo bay before boarding onto the small plane.

He found himself in a seat alone by the window. The closest person to him was a woman that looked about 35, had children, was trying to pay the bills. She smiled at Sherlock with a reassuring glint in her eyes, but they could each tell what emotion was boiling in their veins.

Apprehension.

* * *

 **A/N**

 **Hello! So, hopefully you'll enjoy this AU of Johnlock I've got going here. I'm also writing this little fic over on Wattpad, if you'd rather read it there. Username is fandom_creds.**

 **Shameless self-promotion.**

 **Anyway, if you enjoy this chapter (which is a pretty crap chapter tbh) then please stick around for more updates and really horrible author's notes!**

 **Thanks loves ~**


	2. A Bumpy Landing

The landscape of Afghanistan comes into view from the window Sherlock is looking through. Cold moonlight illuminates the cracked desert and seemingly unpopulated area. You could feel the shadows lurking behind objects too shrouded to be determined. A shiver ran down his spine.

This is not where he should be. He should be in a lab, in a hospital, somewhere other than here. He'd rather be home than be here - a statement that takes a lot of conviction.

He grips the arm rests despite himself. He shouldn't be allowing these emotions to course through him like this. He is more vulnerable than he has ever felt, and he hates it. His stomach drops like a stone as the plane descends.

The wheels hit the tiny strip of runway and Sherlock stands with the rest of the passengers. As they collect whatever items they had with them on the plane, he takes the moment to scrutinize each one.

There are fifteen in all - three are women, the rest men. Most are around Sherlock's age, if not a tad older. The woman whom was sitting closest to him was the oldest there. She had blonde hair pulled into a tight ponytail, eye kind and deep brown. One of the other women had hair cut short in a pixie sort of style, dyed a wild color of blue. Sherlock marveled at how she was accepted to this team at all with such a rogue hair color. However, Sherlock had gotten out of the buzz-cut that they so wanted to give him. He ran a hand through his black curls.

The third woman had fiery red hair and a muscular stature with harsh hazel eyes. She was the only other person not being friendly with the rest of the group here.

At least five of the men were the typical military mold - stocky, rough-looking, either dusty blonde hair or chocolate brunette. There was one boy that looked to be the youngest here - must have just been eighteen. Thoughts swirled in Sherlock's head as to how all of these misfits made it onto this plane, deployed in Afghanistan?

Then there was John - eyes a soft gray and always a simple smile. He always seemed so simple - there was no confusing element to him. Sherlock's deductions flew off of him like birds taking to the air. _Youngest child, bad home life, older sister, easy disposition, likes alcohol, horrible at cooking..._

They all stepped from the plane onto the cracked earth. A patchwork base could be seen in the distance, a few lights glowing under worn tarp. The cold night air nipped at the team's exposed skin, just cold enough to make you clench your hands a bit tighter, blink a bit faster.

The tension in the air was palpable. You could see the increasing heart rate - well, Sherlock could. He could see the growing anxeity, and he hated to admit that his own heart was in his throat. This isn't what he wants. This isn't where he should be.

* * *

John takes in his surroundings. He looks at the big, silver moon hanging in the sky. The same moon he would look up at from his roof every night. Somehow, it looked larger here. Less city life to dim its luster.

The cold air chilled his senses, heightening them. He was hyper aware of the group around him. He was also aware of the fact that he had fallen into step in the front of the pack. With a weight in his heart slowly lifting to his shoulders, he trudged to the base.

A very square looking man with golden-colored hair came out of the opening in the largest tent out of the three units.

Everyone stiffened. The man's uniform signified the look of a -

"Commander." John said, and saluted to him. Everyone else did the same at the exact same time. Well, everyone except for Sherlock.

He eyed the man with a sideways glance, unimpressed. The military pomp and circumstance was always completely overdone.

"At ease, recruits." he said, his voice like boots on gravel. Each person respectively put down their hands. The man remained expressionless.

"Welcome to the Fifth." he said dryly.

* * *

The sleeping quarters for their team was in the second smaller tents connected to the first larger one through a flap. The women took their side a bit spaced from the men, although it was three to twelve, so the predicament was quickly solved.

John immediately took an upper bunk, opting to be just centimeters from his face touching the low-hung roof of the tent.

Sherlock, on the other hand, opted for a bunk on the bottom towards the back corner of the area. A boy, the young-looking one that Sherlock found was called Raven, took the bunk above him to Sherlock's dismay. He had hopped perhaps no one would take the one above him, even though there were only fifteen bunks to begin with.

Everyone was settling in for their first night here, trying to get a wink before daylight burst through the cracks in the cloth. Sherlock took the object out of the case he had kept so well polished, while his other bag containing 'essentials', was tossed away, seemingly meaningless. Raven looked down at him curiously.

"You brought a violin to Afghanistan?" he asked incredulously. Sherlock didn't even acknowledge him, just removing the bow and placing the instrument under his chin.

A few melancholy notes slid from the strings, and the tent went silent. Sherlock looked up, acting baffled.

"Oh, I hope you don't mind." he said in mock sincerity, before scowling at their surprised faces. He turned back to the music.

The voice of the violin always calmed him down, slowed his heart rate, put his mind at rest for a moment. Sometimes it helped him think. Other times, it enabled him to stop thinking entirely. The only thing his brain was working on at this point, was pulling the bow across its strings.

He finished his song and gently put it away. We he finally did look back up, he realized the silence was still deafening. Every single person was just staring at him with big eyes. Finally, someone spoke up.

"That was beautiful." John Watson said.

* * *

 **A/N**

 **Hey again.**

 **Hopefully this chapter was a little less crap.**

 **Let me know plz thx**


	3. Let's Play War

When the sun peeped through the opening in their tents, none of the new recruits felt like obliging to its earnest rays. Most groaned and pulled the sheets above their heads, grumbling about how "It's too damn early."

When their commander burst in, yelling at them to "Move their sorry asses.", they had a bit more motivation.

John, who had yet to wake up and moan at the sun, found himself abruptly awoken to the loud voice and fell unceremoniously onto the floor. A puff of dirt clouded around him for a moment before settling back onto his head. There was a small chorus of chuckles.

He saw two boots come into view right on front of his face. He lifted his head to look at the commander.

"Watson, I presume." he said, his voice gruff. John, quite ungracefully, stood, dusting off his clothing and saluting.

"Correct, sir."

The corner's of the man's lips lifted into the ghost of a smirk.

"You've got a long way to go."

* * *

Sherlock watched the boy fall from his bunk, watched the dust settle. A smirk of his own played across his face. Raven, who was clambering down from his own bunk, sat next to him.

"Quite a character, he is." he said. Sherlock glanced over, surprised by his company.

"Yes, I suppose he is." he mused, before standing and grabbing his uniform. The sleeves were too short, as were the pants, just but a fraction since he was so tall. He felt completely ridiculous donning any kind of uniform, especially in a place like this.

For the um-teenth time that morning, he thought to himself, _this isn't where I should be._

* * *

Today, Major Sholto (as he later introduced himself) was just taking them out to test them and their endurance. The heat of the desert area all around them was intense. The loads of backpacks and uniforms added to the sweat pooling under John's clothes. His breath came in loud huffs, his heartbeat quickening with each step. The added affect of adrenaline was not helping his cause.

He looked out at the landscape. It was bare - few plants dotted the cracked earth. John had heard that parts of Afghanistan were quite beautiful with ice-capped mountains or lush forests. He didn't know if this was true, but if it was, he wanted to be the recruits stationed in those areas.

Ditches and mounds of earth, rather, were the only scenery. And they made John uneasy, looking at the perfect hiding places for a man with a sniper. He focussed on following Sholto.

Sherlock watched the rest of the group a few paces behind, not distanced enough to be noticeable, but not in the thick of the human interaction. He was faring quite well - despite being one of, if not the scrawniest person in their group, he was athletic and fared well on his feet. Agility was his specialty, not strength. He wasn't anticipating this lifestyle - he preferred ballet over weight-lifting any day.

Ballet didn't help him through a war-zone, though.

As much as the contempt boiling in his veins wanted to tell him to throw himself off the tallest peak here, he held onto the thought that this was actually a serious circumstance. He was _in_ a war. Potentially, at any moment, someone could pop from under a ditch and start firing at them. His hand wrapped around the gun looped around his shoulder.

" _Never,_ under any circumstance, do you just start firing into oblivion." Sholto was saying. Most of the group nodded in solemn agreement. "You see an animal jump out on the horizon, you don't loose fire. You make sure that animal is, in fact, an animal. If ammunition is both wasted and dangerously used in haste, we will get nowhere, and someone will lose a life for no good purpose."

Sherlock's eyes scanned the horizon, squinting in the sunlight. Indeed, he saw a wolf dart out from behind a sad looking shrub. If possible, his hold on his rifle increased.

A shot rang through the air, and Sherlock leapt out of his shoes. Major Sholto held his own gun above his head, finger on the trigger. "Scatter! Act as though you're under attack. There are men on all sides - it's an ambush!" he yelled. Immediately, everyone dove, rolling, sliding into a ditch or catapulting behind a shelf of rock. Sherlock, after processing the words for a moment, calculated at least twenty-three good spots to hide, eliminating three for lack of adequate sunlight -

"Holmes!" Sholto roared. He jumped again and took the first option - his back against a hill of earth. He found himself seated next to the girl with short hair. She grinned at him.

"Great minds think alike." her voice was raspy, an odd sort of sound, but pleasing to the ear. Sherlock stared at her, bewildered.

"Name's Clarissa." she said. "Call me Clare."

Sherlock still just stared.

Another gunshot blasted through the air and they both flinched. Clare dove around one side of the hill, reporting it was still Sholto with the gun.

"Let's play war." he said. "Empty your guns - no ammunition. Keep knives sheathed. If you're on this side -" he gestured to the left side of where he was standing. "You're on a team. Likewise for this side. It's a life or death situation - go!"

Sherlock thought the idea of "playing war" in an actual war-zone was a terrible plan, but Clare burst into action, her empty gun making popping noises as she shot at soldiers on the other side of the imaginary border. He just sat there, gripping his still fully-loaded gun, his fingers shaking and brain swirling too much to empty it, or process the game at all.

Clare flopped onto her back, playing dead. She winked at Sherlock. The air was filled with shouts and popping gunfire without bullets, and it all feels so fake, so calm, that Sherlock has no idea what to think. This isn't right. This is -

Someone pops over the side of the hill Sherlock is behind, holding a knife covered in a leather sheath to his neck. Sherlock freezes, terrified. His heart is beating out of his chest - _not right. Not right._ His finger squeezes the trigger in alarm, a shot firing from his gun, kicking him in the stomach.

The boy with the knife falls back in surprise. "Shit - " he says, landing on his back. Sherlock breathes heavily. Sholto rounds the corner in an instant. Sherlock stares at him with wide eyes, heart in his throat.

"Holmes!" he roars again, stamping his foot. "You insufferable - " he goes down a list of insults. Sherlock stares at John, who's sitting on the other side of Sholto's legs, staring at him as well. Both their eyes are round as saucers.

"Back to camp!" the commander yells, and everyone stands. Sherlock still sits still, staring at John, who hasn't moved either. The sound of his shot still rings in his ears.

"You can't just hide in an actual battle, Sherlock." John says.

"I shouldn't be here." he replies.

* * *

 **A/N**

 **Is this literature yet**


	4. The Lack of Privacy

After getting thoroughly chewed out by Major Sholto, Sherlock slunk back to his bunk, finding the rest of his group already there. He scowled when a boy his height, but stouter made a poke at his inexperience.

The bunk above him sank with the weight of Raven. He crouched into a form so small and condensed, it was like he wasn't even there.

It wasn't until a moment later when he realized his uniform was stick stuck to him with sweat. The urge to stay here as never move again was strong, but the urge to be comfortable won over.

At this point, he didn't care what was going on in the rest of the day. He didn't give a single damn if Sholto wants him back out there, once he was changed, he was never leaving.

The scene before him was slightly startling.

Almost every person was disrobing, shedding their uniform, not even caring that they were mostly if not wholly naked in front of the rest of the group. A few tried to at least be modest, going next to bunks, being discreet.

Not John Watson - that, he noticed.

He was pulling off his uniform trousers, stark naked, having a conversation with a chap called Marcus. Sherlock pried his eyes away from the kid - that was the last thing he should be doing. Focus. _Focus_.

He shook thoughts from his head, turned his back to every person there, and stripped as quickly and as nonchalantly as humanly possible. (Although, Sherlock sometimes doubted he was human. The jeers in elementary school certainly said he wasn't.)

A breath escape his lips - trousers on. Alright. He could deal with this.

A catcall shook him from his own little world, and he turned to find Clare on the opposite side of the room in long pants and a sport bra cupping her hands around her mouth. "Hey, tall, thin and muscular! Where were you hiding that body?"

Despite himself, Sherlock's face went completely red, flushing from his neck up to his cheeks. Now, shirtless Sherlock had the attention of the entire room.

Another whistle came from Raven, perched above him. "Damn!"

Sherlock would admit, he had a well-shaped body. His skin was alabaster, smooth and unblemished, his chest taught, stomach chiseled. He had to have made it into the army somehow.

After a chorus of a few people adding their own comments, some mentioning the fact of his misfire, he pulled a shirt roughly over his head, scowling, shoving his uniform under his cot.

"Yes, yes, very funny." he spat. "You've had your laugh, now kindly piss off." he climbed back under Raven, curling into his disappearing form again, blocking out the world with his thoughts. He closed his eyes.

* * *

"Hey..."

A soft rustle.

"Sherlock."

Another push.

"Sherlock, for the love of -"

"What." He said.

"Open your eyes."

"No."

"No one's gonna cat call you - or hold a knife to your throat."

"Brilliant. Sod off."

"Sherlock."

Sherlock opened his eyes to meet two, kind gray ones staring at him. It was oddly quiet.

John was crouched on the balls of his feet, looking at Sherlock under the dip of the bunk above him.

He didn't know how much time had passed, but the warm sunlight seemed to say afternoon. Sherlock blinked at him.

"What do you want."

"You missed lunch - and also, it's getting close to dinner. Sholto wanted To know where you were, so I said I'd go find you. Knew exactly where you were, of course." He grinned a lopsided smile. "Also, I wanted to chat."

Sherlock sighed a dramatic sigh. "I don't -" he made air quotes and a sour face. "Chat."

"Well, best you learn how." He sat down now, crossed his arms over his knees. "What were you doing today?"

Sherlock didn't respond.

"You can't do that, you know. This is an actual - war. You could be in serious trouble if you just sit behind a hill during a battle. You'll end up with a knife at your neck - and that person won't be as kind."

Still - nothing.

John sighed. Their eye contact never broke. A blanket of silence came between them.

"Why are you talking to me?"

John's eyebrows jumped up his head. "What?"

"I do hate repeating myself, so try to keep up. Why are you talking to me?"

John made a face of mock shock. "I can talk to anyone I so please, thank you very much. And it just happens that while you may be smarter than everyone here, you need some common sense knocked into you."

He stood, so Sherlock could only see his knees and down. He went to take a step, but stopped.

"Also, feel free to play the violin any time you like. We were talkin', the rest of the team, and... it's nice. Soothing. This is never a very calming environment, so - just, yeah." he walked out.

Sherlock watched his feet leave his vision before closing his eyes and blocking out any other interruptions. He needed to be alone.

* * *

 **A/N**

 **I really like this story, and I hope I'm portraying the characters alright! Please leave me a comment if you love me**

 **Toodles ~**


	5. Fear is Ruining Him

The table was alive with chatter. The warm glow from torches hanging by the support poles basked the room in an orange light. About 35 people were milling around, some sitting, some dishing the mysterious food onto plates, some just standing. There were various levels of expletives flying through the air.

John was seated at the table next to a boy names Clayton and another man from a different cohort named Jackson. He had shoved his food down quickly, not thinking about its vile quality. Now, his laughter was as loud as some of the most comfortable people there.

Everything was blurring in a rush of speed, the moon rising over the hills of Afghanistan. People were just shapes, colorful blobs in his peripheral. His focus was quickly drawn away from the setting of military men and women, to the sore thumb, the person that stuck out more than anything else here.

His eyes followed the boy as he entered the scene, his eyes wide and bewildered. Put off by the setting, and most likely the group of people around the food, he stood for only a moment before staring at the open flap of the tent. A sliver of navy sky and cracked earth could be seen from the opening. John watched him look once, twice, then slink out the exit.

John had already assaulted him once today. Should he really do it again?

"John, have you even been listening?" Clayton said, knocking him on the side of the head. He snapped back to attention, grinning.

"Of course, mate."

* * *

The air was crisp against his skin. He looked at the landscape, the same area he had viewed from the window of the plane. Now he was immersed in it, and a different sort of chill went through him, one that stripped him from any facade he had held and took away what little warmth he possessed. His hands dug into his arms, leaving marks on his skin. Another chill racked through him.

Fear.

This was fear.

Sherlock had always been a man of few words and even fewer emotions. Mycroft had always told him, sentiment was invaluable. Emotions just got in the way.

Suddenly, every single wall he had out up was falling, crumbling, bleeding through his fingers. An he just watched. Stared. Why?

What about this situation have him such apprehension? What about this place let him feel intense fear?

Of course, the obvious presented itself. It was a war zone - fear was natural, almost expected. He could see it on his other recruits. But to him, every day at his own home was a war zone and this should be no different. Every day at his old school, every day in his old life was the same circumstance.

So what was different?

Sherlock was brilliant. An equation such as this should be simple; child's play.

He brought his knees to his chest, his pajama pants picking up dust, his bare feet scratched on rough ground. He leaned against a support pole, eyes always focused on the horizon.

A wolf howled a mournful song into the night. Sherlock paled.

On the ground beside him, the warm glow of life was spread in a triangle through the opening. Laughter spilled from the tent. Strangely enough, this cold landscape was more welcoming than that environment.

How had he come to this? Why would he have thought this would be a better option for him? All of these thoughts and - he cringed - _emotions_ , gathered in his head and mixed around until he just wanted to scream.

So he did.

* * *

A piercing, guttural scream tore through the conversation inside the tent. Everyone jumped, frozen, all words dying on lips. Each person looked at every pair of eyes, confused and, to be honest, sort of terrified.

John Watson sighed audibly.

"Calm down, it's just -" he pointed to the opening in the tent, motioning for a moment, at a loss for explanation, before just shaking his head and maneuvering through the group.

He pushed the tent flap away with a flourish, looking down to find Sherlock curled into the tightest ball he had ever seen a human manage. His curly hair was buried between his knees, his face completely obscured. John huffed, dropping his hands to his sides and looking at the landscape around him.

The moon hung in the sky as a half circle, as if someone had sliced it right in half. The stars that dotted the sky reminded him of paint splatter, an artist flicking his brush at the navy canvas and creating something marvelous. Everything in this strange place was clearer, sharper, in high-definition almost. John breathed it all in. The quiet was slowly replaced with the conversation starting back up through the cloth.

John said nothing. Rather, he opted to sitting next to the boy, stretching his legs out in front of him, leaning back. He looked completely relaxed.

"Why did you join the army if you're so terrified of everything here?" he asked eventually. His voice sounded unnatural after such a long lull in speaking.

Sherlock was silent.

"Listen, I may not know you very well, if at all, but it's visibly obvious how terrified you are. It's ok to be scared, you know -"

"I'm not scared." his voice was completely muffled by the angle of his head. John laughed, a dry sound.

"Yeah right. Fear is the only thing keeping some of these people from losing it completely. With you, though, fear is ruining you."

Sherlock groaned again, unfolding like a piece of paper, falling onto his back. He stared at the stars.

"Will you leave me alone?" he asked bitterly.

"No, because I know if no one talks to you, you'll be so far off the deep end, no one will pull you back out."

It was quiet.

"Whatever perspective you've got, whatever you've been told - fear isn't a bad thing. You need to feel fear every once in a while to feel human."

Sherlock made a noise somewhere between a laugh and a huff, a pitying exhale of air through his nose. "Please. People have told me I am far from human, and emotions are the last thing I need to get in my way."

John stared at this stubborn boy, baffled. "I will never understand you, will I?"

"I didn't come to the military to make friends, after all."

John nodded, once, then another time as if to convince himself there was no where to get with this kid. He stood, then stopped, one boot through the opening.

"I told the others about your playing. Violin, that is. They demand a concert. Whenever you're done brooding, you could come in and play for us. And don't try to sneak away - you need to eat as well."

Then he left.

* * *

 ** _a/n_**

 ** _So i've had a horrible writer's block,_** ** _and this chapter is sort of crap as well._**

 ** _LOOK IF YOU'RE TRYING TO FIND AN AUTHOR THAT HAS THEIR CRAP TOGETHER YOU'VE COME TO THE WRONG PLACE_**

 ** _sorry carry on I love you so much please don't leave I just have a lot of emotions._**

 ** _You're amazing 3_**


	6. The Most Beautiful Melody

Who was this kid, and who did he think he is?

Sherlock stared at the opening for a long time after John left. His words were still swirling in his head, overtaking his previous dilemma.

He wants him to just casually play in front of all those people... on purpose? Willingly? No- no way. And no way was he going to eat. Did John think he was responsible for Sherlock now?

He planned his route carefully, taking into account where John was standing and who was around that would call him out. Raven would, and a few others that enjoyed cat-calling him earlier. He stood, paced for a moment, then entered the tent.

This was not what he expected.

Everyone in the tent, if they had been talking, stopped at his entrance, no matter how stealthy he was. They all stopped and stared at him. Then they grinned.

"Sherlock!" some of them said. "Oh, please play for us!" said others. Sherlock froze. He could still get out if -

He made eye contact with John, who smiled at him.

John was not the boss of him, and he was not in charge of him. Sherlock didn't have to listen to any of these people, especially not John...

He turned and walked to their room, searched by his bunk, and found his violin case.

And he was surprised to see his hands shake as he unclasped the lid.

The realization hit him so hard, he sat down on the edge of his bed. The fear, the confusion - _the people._

Everything made sense.

Sherlock wasn't scared of the surrounding, the situation, but the people, the prospect of listening to orders and being forced to work with people to survive. And as much as Sherlock hated human beings, he valued his life more.

The fear boiling in his veins was anxiety. He gripped the case harder and took a deep, long breath.

These were just people - he had dealt with people before on many occasions. So why, _why,_ was it so different?

Sherlock pushed every though in his head to the way back, focussing on just one thing; the violin in his hands.

When he returned to the main room, everyone turned and grinned, clapped, the lot. Sherlock just rolled his eyes, dismissing them instantly. Everyone shut up as he positioned the bow over the strings.

The song he played this time produced a melody that started sort of sweet, upbeat almost, then fell into something mournful and heartbreaking. Each note lifted out of the instrument, floating into a beat, then dropping and shattering into the sad tune a violin normally carries. Sherlock closed his eyes and swayed with his song. It was silent except for the music.

* * *

John leaned against the table, watching this boy play, watching him completely in his element, and he, too, closed his eyes. The song filled the tent, warming the glow, then dimming it. Sherlock was in complete control of the room and its emotions - he could twist the bow to make the broken pieces pick themselves up and create something happy again.

When Sherlock stood up straight, dropping the bow to his side and opening his eyes, John opened his as well. The silence was calm. He stared at Sherlock, and Sherlock stared at him. The curly-haired boy's hands shook visibly on his instrument.

Sherlock left without a word.

* * *

 ** _a/n_**

 ** _IDK WHY I FELT THE NEED TO WRITE A SHORT-ASS CHAPTER OK_**

 ** _I'm so sorry I'm a terrible author you guys are sweet for reading this stuff._**

 ** _It's so late and this chapter is just ugh and the title and I need to sleep goodnight ~_**


	7. His Discipline

_"When were you planning on mentioning this information to me?"_

 _Sherlock shrugged. "Never, I guess."_

* * *

Sherlock hadn't slept. When the rest of the team stumbled from bed at the blast of an airhorn, he merely, crawled from his bunk and stretched. It seemed like every part of his body cracked; which made sense, since he hadn't moved from his curled-up position the entire night.

He pulled his uniform on in a monotonous fashion. Raven tried several times to start conversation, to which Sherlock still replied with silence. Eventually, he gave up.

Major Sholto ordered every person's sorry ass to get into the third tent, of which no one had yet explored. Sherlock fell into place at the back of the group, passing through the largest middle tent into a place that mirrored their sleeping tent, except there were no bunks. Instead, all kinds of backpacks, supplies, and weapons littered the space. Tables were set up, covered in all kinds of materials. _Ah - so this is where the guns are._

Sherlock took in the expanse of items before his eyes landed on several huge cases of medical materials, along with stretchers propped against a tent pole. His fingers itched to mess with the different things in the cases.

Sholto ordered people to do many things, go this way and that, do this, don't do that, and of course the occasional, "DON'T TOUCH THAT!" could be heard. John and a few other people were ordered over to the medical area until the only person not doing something was Sherlock. Sholto stared at him.

"Holmes. You're the medical understudy, aren't you?"

Sherlock stared at him straight-faced.

"Well, answer me son!"

"Yes."

"You'll address me as 'sir'."

"Alright."

The vein pulsing on Sholto's neck throbbed. He squinted at Sherlock, who fought back a smirk.

"We've got a smart-ass on our hands, I see." he smiled. Which, to be honest, unnerved Sherlock a bit.

"Stay right here, boy." he said, then left the tent. Not after turning around to yell at the group to keep doing whatever they were doing first.

Sherlock made eye contact with no one, only staring at the flap where Sholto had disappeared through. Whatever discipline he was planning would be nothing he couldn't handle, of course. He was predicting either press-ups or pull-ups, for a number of reasons just based on Sholto's character. His assumption was correct when Sholto came back carrying three long metal rods. He stood in the very center of the tent and forced one of the poles into the cracked dirt. Two plates folded down from either side of the pole, which he anchored two stakes through. Then he looked up at Sherlock, holding out another pole expectantly.

"Well? You saw how to do it, now do it!"

He took his time walking over to take the pole, then kneeling on the ground and pushing the pole into the dirt. He took his time pretending to find the plates, then fumbled with the stakes. Then he stood and stared at the commander. The tension between them was palpable, and their gaze never wavered; Sholto's of anger, Sherlock's of audacity. Or perhaps it was stupidity - the difference between the two was small.

Finally, Sholto took the third rod and inserted either end into slots on the other rods, securing each side with a pin. Then he back up and motioned for Sherlock to come forward.

"50 pull-ups - unless that's too much for you?" he mocked. Sherlock stared daggers at him before moving under the rod.

At this point, every person in the tent had stopped to watch. Raven was in Sherlock's line of sight in front of him - he smiled at him. Sherlock wiped his palms on his pants before jumping and grabbing the bar.

The bar was probably at about seven feet high - Sherlock was six foot. The jump up onto the bar was easy, the metal cool under his fingers. It was also slick. He tried not to think about the imaginary slipping sensation, and rather started his discipline.

He had done about ten when he heard Sholto talking. Well, yelling. "This is just one example of discipline - you're not free to do whatever you please here. And if you can't handle these exercises, you can't handle the military. Now get back to work."

The sounds of clanking metal and plastic locks and human interaction filled the air, and the feeling of a hundred eyes on Sherlock faded. Now only one pair of eyes bore into him. Well, two - but he didn't know about the second pair.

* * *

John watched Sherlock pull himself up, then drop down. Up and down. Up and down. He was in such a rhythm, it was mesmerizing. He must have done about twenty by now, and it was starting to show. His knuckles were white, fingers adjusting, chin coming to the bar instead of over it.

"Hey, Watson!" Danny punched him on the arm. "Stop ogling him and help us out here."

John turned, his neck no doubt red. "I wasn't ogling him, you arse." he said, squatting to help unclasp the large medical kit. But his eyes drifted back to Sherlock. It was just because he was interested in how it would play out, that's all.

Now he must have hit thirty. And his muscles were starting to shake a bit. He would hang low for a moment longer to arrange his hands differently. His legs swung to help him lift himself up. And all the while, Sholto stared, arms crossed over his chest, eyes judgmental.

He tried to focus on his task, waiting for something to happen. Plus, he was curious as to where Sholto would send him to help out. Another minute passed.

He heard feet his dirt. "Fifty." Sherlock said, panting a bit, but not obnoxiously. "Are you finished disciplining me?"

Sholto scowled. "Get to the medical station."

John's eyes widened in surprise, but Sherlock turned to walk his direction and he turned back abruptly as to not be caught staring.

When he sat down next to John, John looked over casually. Sherlock's hands shook. "I didn't know you were medical."

"Studying under you." he said, a bit quickly, before grabbing a kit and not making eye contact. John's eyes widened.

" _You're_ the understudy?" he asked.

"You don't have to sound so surprised." he said bitterly.

John laughed - though it wasn't really a laugh. More like, he had exhaled a larger amount of air than usual in a way that sounded a little like a chuckle. "When were you planning on mentioning this information to me?"

Sherlock shrugged. "Never, I guess."

"Why not?"

Sherlock sighed as if John was irritating him, which he probably was. But John stared at him expectantly.

"Well, it's a bit demeaning to be an _understudy,_ now isn't it? Don't want to go shout it around, let everyone know that, "Hey! I'm not at good as you, but I still got let onto the team out of pity!"" Sherlock scowled at him. John was quiet.

"Hey! Recruits!" Sholto shouted. Both boys looked over.

"Follow me - it's time for some more field training."

* * *

 **a/n**

 **I'm pleased with this chapter - are you? Let me know please! :)**


	8. Where Did They Go?

Almost a month had passed since Sherlock's first time having to do some form of exercise as a way of discipline. Today would be his... let's see... thirty-fifth?

He stood from the reps of push-ups and dusted his hands on his uniform. The soreness after that first day had long worn away, and if anything, Sherlock had only gotten thinner. He caught up to the group of people standing at the edge of the tent opening, not really listening to the instructions that were being given. Why should he listen, anyway? It seemed like whether he did something correctly or not Sholto punished him. The game was getting rather old.

"I can't believe it..." John said excitedly, appearing at Sherlock side. He was bouncing on his toes, arms crossed behind his back. After a quick bit of deduction, and tuning in to the last few words of Sholto's monologue, it seemed like they were straying from their haven training ground by the base and instead opting for somewhere a little different. A little less safe, perhaps - a little more dangerous. Had to be quieter, had to be swifter, and had to be cautious. Sherlock's fingers dug into his palms.

The month that had passed, sweeping time with it, had not swept any of Sherlock's qualms away from his overflowing mind. Suppressed, maybe. But gone? Of course not. Thoughts would never truly leave Sherlock's mind until he pressured them to disappear. And these feelings would not go without a fight.

The weaponry strapped to his back over his ever-growing uniform felt extremely heavy. The dirt and sweat and altogether uncomfortable feelings he was receiving did not help his mindset. As much as he hated to do so, Sherlock was going to give effort today, because stakes were higher and lives were beginning to be put on the line. He glanced at John, who was still talking to him about something or other. A small smirk played across his features.

"Why do you love this so much? Is it the adrenaline? The thrill, the blood pumping through your veins. Is the the air of being killed at any moment addicting to you?"

John's features were absolutely unreadable - to anyone that wasn't Sherlock Holmes. He saw the hardening of those kind, gray eyes. And he saw the slightest clench of his jaw.

"It's not for thrill-seeking, Sherlock. It's for the honor of it all."

"Not true."

Now he looked at him with a quirked eyebrow. "Sorry?"

"Lying." he blinked, unfazed. "Although, judging by your body language towards me, I would think it's a topic you wouldn't want to discuss. So don't let me push you to it."

He then walked into the sunlight with the rest of the tense bodies around him. John halted for a moment, dumbstruck, before galloping after his tall friend.

* * *

The heat was unbearable, trapped into the uniform that had become just a tad too large for John. The pants were baggier than they were on that first day - the shirt's buttons easier to clasp. He held his weapon in his sweating hands, his breath coming out in rasping gasps. He wasn't out of shape, nor scared, but rather exhilarated.

The sand under where he was sitting was also very warm, so he scooted closer into the mound of packed earth that was providing him with some shade.

Gunshots fired behind him. As instinct, he crouched lower to the cracked dirt and poked the barrel of his gun around, looking to see exactly who was being shot at.

To his great surprise, Sherlock was standing stiff as a board behind a rock pile, gun against his chest, waiting for the endless barrage of bullets to cease for a moment. A man covered in a long tan cloth sat behind a mound of dirt, gun pointed where Sherlock's heart would be.

* * *

Sherlock, upon arrival at their destination, immediately took cover behind a huge pile of boulders. So far, nothing had gone haywire. But Sherlock did not want to jinx it - not that he believed in that sort of pointless intervention. So his nerves were still on high alert.

At every noise, he gripped his gun harder and pressed his back further into the rocks. He could still see Sholto's hulking form watching all their every moves. He was stiff and ever present, tucked behind an outcrop. That is, until the first gunshot went off.

The pop in the air was full and loud and harmful, and Sholto went down. From these deductions off the bat, the fire was not friendly. None of the recruits had come loaded, but ammunition was stashed in their belts. As more bullets were fired, Sherlock loaded his gun with a steady hand.

A steady hand? This was the exact opposite of what he should be doing, what he wanted to be doing, and what he though was right. Why would he be calm? Why was the adrenaline... exciting?

* * *

John's eyes scanned the scene. There was only one man exchanging the unfriendly fire - and only one person pointing a gun back at him. Where was Sholto? His mind went into overdrive until he spotted their commander on the dirt to his left.

John flew into action, his hands moving at light speed to find something of medical use in his pockets as he made his way to Sholto. As soon as the man was in full view, John instantly spotted the blood stain on the side of his uniform.

He tore open the shirt and found that rather than a full bullet wound, the shot had grazed his side, leaving gash that was easily sewn. Such an injury should be considered minor - so why wasn't he helping?

John ripped his pant leg, for lack of anything better, and wrapped it tightly around the wound. Then he looked at Sholto's face, eyes closed, and checked for a pulse. The heartbeat resonated on John's hands.

He scanned the immediate surroundings - sand, dirt, rocks - a rock. A very well-placed rock. A conveniently jagged rock in a very, very bad spot. John lifted Sholto's head - blood.

The gunfire ceased, the echo of it bouncing in John's head. Boots his sand, and John could only hope the person to emerge would be a friendly one.

"John -" Sherlock rounded behind him, and instantly fell to his knees next to Sholto on the other side. "What do you need me to do?"

"Let me see a strip of your shirt." John said. When Sherlock just stared at Sholto, a faraway look in his eyes, John raised his voice. "Sherlock! Your shirt -"

"Right." Sherlock took the bottom edge of his uniform and tore, handing a long strip to John and watching as he wrapped it around his head. Meanwhile, he said. "Ok, nurse, press here."

"Nurse?"

"J _ust do it._ "

Sherlock jumped to apply pressure to the gash on Sholto's side.

Throughout all of this, one thought ran through the back of John's mind - _where was the rest of his troop?_

* * *

 **a/n**

 **I'm so sorry for not updating I was out of town and summer school and ahhhhhhhhh**

 **it's good to be back ok**

 **and I know this chapter sucks**

 **but I tried**

 **and good things are to come my friends**

 **also there are so many page breaks in this chapter goodness I need to calm down**


	9. X quick interjection X

So, not an update (unfortunately) but I felt the need to make a little interjection –

I just want to say, thank you so much for reading and commenting and voicing your opinions because to me, it's so special to hear from people I don't even know that they like what I write. It just brings a smile to my face and I don't think I could continue writing this without acknowledging that it means a lot to me.

 _I LOVE YOU ALL YOU'RE BEAUTIFUL CUPCAKES_

And on another note, **this is very important !**

Me being the huge dork that I am, I never really sat down and wrote a comprehensive plot for this story. I just write down notes that I come up with, important bits that need to happen. And it just happens as it goes. So I have a question for you –

Where do you think the rest of the troop would have gone? Where would you like them to have disappeared? I'm definitely asking you this because I want to incorporate you guys into the story, not because I actually have no idea myself and am at a total writer's block… heheh…

So _pleaseee_ comment and tell me! I'll give credit to the ideas I like the most, and of course I'll give you a giant cookie and a virtual hug because you're great -

Until next update!

Your totally confused and grateful author,

Ashley


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